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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25700545">you can lean on my arm as you break my heart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeitgeistofnow/pseuds/zeitgeistofnow'>zeitgeistofnow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>cooking as an expression of bato's love [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Avatar: The Last Airbender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Cooking, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Love Confessions, Love Languages, M/M, again.. bakoda and cooking r connected in my brain, but if anyone thinks i should change that lmk!, i didn't put canonical character death as a warning bc it doesn't happen in the fic, that's even a tag!! wow, uhh yeah this is sad but it has a hopeful ending?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:22:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,472</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25700545</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeitgeistofnow/pseuds/zeitgeistofnow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>the apartment doesn’t feel warm anymore, the glow of safety bato always felt enveloping him when he stepped inside replaced with shades of blue and indigo. he shrugs off his long wool coat and hangs it on a cast-iron hook kya bought years ago. there’s a chicken on it, proud and crowing in the rising sun. there’s a chicken in the plastic bags bato carries, too, but it’s dead and packaged in styrofoam. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bato &amp; Kya (Avatar), Bato/Hakoda (Avatar), Past Kya/Hakoda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>cooking as an expression of bato's love [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858732</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Bakoda Fleet Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you can lean on my arm as you break my heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>- song title is from i don't smoke by mitski bc i just started listening to her music. i know i'm like a year behind but i have SUCH a hard time picking an album by an artist to start with and then i just don't. uhh yeah someone needs to write a strawberry blonde bakoda songfic because GOd i know neither of them r blonde but <em>you tell me you love her / i give u a grin</em> tell me that doesn't scream bakoda</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The apartment doesn’t feel warm anymore, the glow of safety Bato always felt enveloping him when he stepped inside replaced with shades of blue and indigo. He shrugs off his long wool coat and hangs it on a cast-iron hook Kya bought years ago. There’s a chicken on it, proud and crowing in the rising sun. There’s a chicken in the plastic bags Bato carries, too, but it’s dead and packaged in styrofoam. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bends down to untie his docs and lines them carefully next to the four other pairs of shoes against the wall: Hakoda’s leather hiking boots, years old and scuffed at the toes, Katara’s jelly shoes, Sokka’s converse, and Kanna’s flats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks through the unlit living room to the equally unlit kitchen and dumps one of his grocery bags on the floor, then bends down to carefully place the other one- doesn’t want to break the eggs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lights are never on when he comes home, unless they’re all on, every single thrift-store lamp methodically switched on by an eight-year-old Katara. They switched to LED bulbs a few years ago, so neither lighting situation does anything but bathe the living room in blues- cool darkness or harsh light. The lights keep the monsters away, according to Katara, but Bato knows they just remind the rest of them of the angry white light of the hospital, even if it’s been months since the last hospital visit. He should really get around to buying halogen bulbs again, but he always forgets. Just lights more tea candles left over from Kya and Hakoda’s wedding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pair had floated the candles down a gentle stream at Kya’s parent’s house after the ceremony: a vikings burial for unmarried life. Bato had been the only other one there, sitting on a stump a few feet away and watching fondly. The night had been golden. Every moment with Kya had been golden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bato sighs and hops up onto the counter, bracing his elbows on his thighs and resting his head in his hands. He hadn’t seen any other members of his- of Kya’s family since walking in, which suggests that they’re all tucked into their own rooms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s late afternoon, evening creeping around the windowsill like frost, which means he should start dinner. Which means he should make sure that Katara has drank water today, means that he should belatedly remind Sokka to take his ADHD meds. He should find Hakoda and play through a sad mockery of his daily routine with Kya- </span>
  <em>
    <span>what did you do today?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Hakoda will say,</span>
  <em>
    <span> Tell me about your travels, remind me of the world outside your bedroom. Play her part for me and I’ll do the same for you- try to fill the hole in your heart, try to fill the chasm in mine. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bato plays the mender not because he was hurt less but because he was made rougher, less fragile than Hakoda and the kids. He and Kanna tag team it, their leather exteriors only punctured in a few more places while Hakoda and Katara lie in ceramic shatters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He plays Kya’s role in their home not because he needs her less but because the others need her more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bato inhales and shuffles his lighter out of his pocket- the tea lights are placed strategically around the kitchen so that their tiny flames illuminate as much area as possible. Bato lights four of them before he notices Sokka at the round table, face scrunched and finger tracing words in a textbook. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finishes the last five candles and sits down at the table next to Sokka, in the second of six mismatched chairs. It’s Kanna’s chair, but they don’t put much thought into whose chair is whose anymore beyond avoiding Kya’s. “Hey, kiddo,” he says, and Sokka beams up at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uncle Bato!” He says cheerfully, always the light in the darkness, always the best at compartmentalizing and moving ahead. “We missed you today. Katara wouldn’t leave her room because you weren’t there to help pick out her outfit and Gran Gran couldn’t convince her that the shirt I chose was good enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bato forces a smile and Sokka’s own falters. “Well, I’ll be sure to lay something out for her tomorrow.” He’s only been working again for a month or two, once the bills piling up made it clear that the pressure wasn’t going to be enough to get Hakoda out of bed quite yet. He hasn’t worked 9 to 5 in years- not since college, really. It was odd jobs while he was abroad and then it was commission writing in the warm years with Kya and Hakoda. He doesn’t like being away from home for so long every day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the parenting books Bato pretended he bought for Kya said that routine was important for children, especially in tumultuous emotional times, but Bato and Hakoda don’t have the savings for routine right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You better,” Sokka nods in agreement. “Anyway, can you help me with this? I’ve got a </span>
  <em>
    <span>huge </span>
  </em>
  <span>Spanish list for school tomorrow and it’s hard to quiz myself with just the sheet, especially because the letters keep bleeding together and I can’t guess the words when they’re in Spanish. Gran Gran won’t let me use your laptop, either, so I can’t do Quizlet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bato holds out a hand for the list and Sokka gives it to him- it’s a light blue half-sheet, crumpled at the edges from being in the kid’s backpack. It’s just middle-school Spanish, words Bato almost remembers learning from the single language class he took in college, and it’s all written in one of the most dyslexic-unfriendly fonts he’s ever seen, serif with all the Spanish words in italics. Bato makes a mental note to have a conversation with this teacher, not that he’ll ever have the time. “Am I reading the English words and having you tell me the Spanish, or the Spanish and having you tell me the English.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care,” Sokka says, “mix it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’ll tell Kanna that Sokka can use his laptop for school later. After he finishes dinner and everyone has a bowl in front of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Kanna still play cribbage together over dinner, the two of them at the table in the living room, Hakoda in the bedroom, the kids on the floor next to them. It feels too strange to eat at the kitchen table with Kya’s chair empty, so they don’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Sokka speed through the vocab words- the kid knows more of them than he gives himself credit for and his pronunciation is only a little weird on rolled </span>
  <em>
    <span>r’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>hijo </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hija. </span>
  </em>
  <span>After the second runthrough Bato puts down the sheet and stands up, stretching. He can reach the popcorned ceiling if he wants, fingers rabbling against spots of stucco. “Okay, Socks, I’ve got to start dinner. You can use my laptop for Quizlet if you keep it plugged in in the living room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sokka slips out of his chair and pokes at the grocery bag. “What’re we having?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Soup,” Bato says, because they always have soup. “With noodles in it and your mom’s spice blend.” It’s not really a spice blend, just every soup herb tossed into a jar and labeled in her neat, square print. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re slowly running low on their supply, but Kya had given Bato a box of carefully preserved recipe cards, each written out in abbreviations only the three of them knew. Words for mincing or browning or carmelizing that Hakoda would come up with when he was tired and they were still cooking something, back before there were kids and a reason to have dinner before 10 at night. Bato knows that the herb blend has its own card in the box, knows that he has the ability to make more when he runs out. Doesn’t stop him from dreading that day, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The box sits where it always has, on a shelf above the stove and below the cabinet. It’s as yet unopened, Bato making the same soup he always has over and over again. He knows what each and every recipe looks like, can recite some of the jokes in the margins, can tell a dozen stories about times they made each kind of cake, each pasta. There are memories stored in the recipe box and Bato isn’t too manly to admit that he’s a little scared of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m kinda sick of soup,” Sokka says. “I miss mom’s lasagna.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I miss your mom’s lasagna too,” Bato says, bending down to grab a bag. He props the fridge door open with one hip and starts to put the food away- yogurt on the top shelf, onions and a bag of potatoes in the drawer on the bottom. “You know what made it taste so good?” He looks around the fridge door to meet Sokka’s eyes. The boy looks uncharacteristically solemn, big brown eyes meeting Bato’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much she loved us. That was her secret ingredient in everything she made for her family.” Bato puts a carton of almond milk onto the balcony of the fridge, then a loaf of bread onto the second shelf. “She loved you so much and you could taste it in her food.” There’s a lump developing in Bato’s throat, but he doesn’t cry easily. It’s been months since the last time he broke down and it’ll be years until the next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your soup tastes just like hers,” Sokka says experimentally, eyes narrowed like he’s skating on ice that he’s never explored.</span>
</p><p><span>“Does it? Thank you,” Bato says. He balls up the now-empty grocery bag and spills the ingredients in the other out out on the counter. The two plastic bags- white, translucent, red writing that says </span><em><span>THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU- </span></em><span>go into the plastic bag basket underneath the electric mixer.</span> <span>He starts to unwrap the chicken and pokes experimentally at it. It’s still a little frozen, crackling when he pulls the thighs apart.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Do you have the same secret ingredient?” Sokka asks, and Bato stops. The choking feeling is back, the distinct discomfort of a physical manifestation of your grief curling behind your adam’s apple. He braces his hands on the edge of the counter and stares down at the chicken thighs on yellow styrofoam, imagines the slow and careful process of preparing the meat, of chopping the vegetables and sprinkling seasoning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he closes his eyes he can pretend that Kya will be there to walk him through the recipe and tell happy stories as he dices onions. If he closes his eyes he can ignore that the kitchen is shrouded in darkness, how they left Kya and her love months ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How else would it taste the same?” He says, voice rough. He clears his throat and when he talks again his voice is back to normal. It still feels like gravel against his tongue. He opens his eyes again. “I love you and your family more than I could love anything else. Cooking is- how she taught me to show you all that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s the sound of footsteps in the silent kitchen and then Sokka wraps his arms around Bato from behind. The boy is still shorter than even his Gran Gran, and his arms find their resting place right above Bato’s belly button. “I love you too, Uncle. I lied, your soup is delicious. Promise you’ll keep making it for us forever?” Bato can hear the unspoken question behind Sokka’s small voice- </span>
  <em>
    <span>promise you won’t leave us- </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the lump in his throat strangles his voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He manages a choked </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Forever,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” and Sokka steps away, padding into the living room to find Bato’s laptop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bato stands there for longer than he’d like to admit, tracing the grout lines of the backsplash with his gaze, fingers curled tightly over the edges of the linoleum counter. He only stands again when he feels fingers dusting at his back, strong hands coming to rest on his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you doing?” Hakoda asks, voice warm and broken. Bato turns, feeling the moment Hakoda’s hands fall from his shoulders like the loss of a lifeline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hakoda looks better than he sometimes does- brown skin warm and hair still a little bit damp from his shower. His t-shirt advertises a band they loved in college and his cardigan is Bato’s, too big on the smaller man and a soft eggshell color.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was I too late for our nightly talk?” Bato asks, smiling a little bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just missed you early today,” Hakoda responds. “Your room is just as empty without you as Kya’s is without her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hakoda sleeps in Bato’s room these days, his and Kya’s old room kept unused and tomb-like. He has a makeshift bed on the floor, a collection of blankets and pillows that Sokka and Katara label </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dad’s nest </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he sleeps tangled in them most nights. Other nights he sleeps tangled between Bato’s limbs and it feels like cuddling with ice- so cold it’s warm again, a feeling like the other man might melt away if Bato holds him too closely. They always used to sleep next to each other as children, a habit that continued on and off until Kya’s father walked her down the aisle. Even king beds are only made for two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I can’t be here,” Bato says. Hakoda takes a step forward and against Bato, face fitting easily into the crook of Bato’s neck. When he speaks again Bato can feel his mouth move against Bato’s collarbone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry you can’t be here. I’m sorry I can’t- the kids miss you every day. Mom says…” Hakoda’s voice fades away. “Mom says a lot of things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kanna’s never shied away from hard conversations, even if she insists on having them in roundabout ways. Hakoda had always been the best at interpreting her words, although Bato was a close second. He’s always suspected that her riddles are easier for the two of them, though, her son and her favorite of her son’s favorites. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” Hakoda says suddenly, and Bato puts a quiet hand on the small of his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you too,” he says, and every part of him aches. It’s true- it’s always true, always has been and always will be, but he’ll never say it the same way Hakoda does, unburdened with anything more or less than the purest kind of friendship. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hakoda stands up straight and Bato’s hand falls away, back to his side. Hakoda puts a hand to Bato’s jaw. The pads of his fingers are scratchy against Bato’s skin and the calluses of his hands are rough. It’s a feeling Bato is familiar with- he knows every part of Hakoda, maybe his hands more than anything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Hakoda says empathetically, eyes searching for something Bato’s sure doesn’t exist anymore, some part of Kya in him, “I love </span>
  <em>
    <span>you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m- you’re beautiful, Bato, you shine-” Hakoda presses back against Bato, head tilted up to crush their lips together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lips are chapped and he tastes like coffee. It’s softer than any of the scenarios Bato imagined, and Bato lets his eyes flutter closed for just a moment. He lets himself lean closer, lets himself move to hold Hakoda against him, for just a moment. Then he remembers himself, remembers Hakoda, remembers the hand they’ve been dealt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes Hakoda away more gently than he intends. It’s barely a shove, something more of a caress than anything with force behind it. He doesn’t need force with Hakoda. He never has. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other man stands in the middle of the kitchen now. He’s not wearing socks and his toenails are painted hot pink. Bato bought Katara that nail polish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Why</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Bato asks, and his voice comes out hoarse. He tries again. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I love you,” Hakoda says, “because I’ve always loved you, and you’ve-” He talks like it’s something he’s thought about for weeks and that makes it worse. That Bato could have- tricked him, mislead him, with his mild affection and housekeeping. That this isn’t a spur of the moment concedence to Bato’s pining. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t love me like that,” Bato says firmly, “and you never have, and that’s okay. If you are trying to </span>
  <em>
    <span>repay </span>
  </em>
  <span>me,” and he feels his voice go scornful in a way it never has when talking to Hakoda, the casual cruelty we all direct at ourselves floating to the surface, “know that I would rather die than let you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bato,” Hakoda says, voice going desperate in a way Bato has only heard once, in a hospital room months ago. “I need-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>back,” Bato says, “I’m not your </span>
  <em>
    <span>replacement </span>
  </em>
  <span>Kya. I’ve never shone, Koda, I’m just the shadow to your moon, to her stars. I can’t be, you can’t- she can’t be-” And he won’t cry again for years, he won’t. “You don’t love me,” he says tiredly, “I’m sorry that you think you do.” He turns back around, starts to gather the things needs for soup again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t tell me who I love,” Hakoda says to Bato’s back. His voice is louder than it needs to be and stronger than Bato could ever be. Sometimes he forgets about the power in his best friend’s veins, the anger coursing beneath his skin, “that isn’t something that is yours to dictate. I love you, Bato, and you will never be Kya. Ever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Bato knows- </span>
  <em>
    <span>god, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bato knows, but they all need Kya more than they need Bato to be himself, so he can play the role. He can make soup just like she used to, can play the same games with Katara that Kya always did. He just- he can’t play this role. Couldn’t ever do this. He spent years wishing he could be her, bright and easy and the one that Hakoda loves, but he can’t and he isn’t. He loves Hakoda with every atom of his being but he can’t love as her. “I know,” Bato says to the countertop, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t want me to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think I don’t know you well enough? That I didn’t know her like the back of my hand and you like the lines of my palm?” Hakoda’s voice flashes dangerously and Bato wants to hold him to his chest, wants to do his best to destroy whatever is making him sound like that. “I would never wish you to be anything that you aren’t, Bato, and fuck you for thinking I would.” It’s the kind of declaration that one storms away after, and Bato waits for the quiet thumps of bare feet slamming against linoleum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They never come, and when Bato straightens and turns, Hakoda is still there, defeat written across his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” they both say, a harmony of apologies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean to yell,” Hakoda says, and Bato says “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I didn’t ask,” Hakoda says, and Bato says, “I’m sorry I never told you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hakoda says, “told me what?” which is too much and Bato takes a moment to stare at the floor and breathe before looking back up at Hakoda. A quiet understanding has taken a home in Hakoda’s face, and he looks sad even as he looks better than he has in months. “I love you,” Hakoda repeats, and this time Bato smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you too, idiot, but. We both need time.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>I need to know you mean it, I can’t handle the alternative, not after so long. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He turns around to grab a few stalks of celery he’d been planning on adding to the soup and offers them to Hakoda. “How about you start helping with dinner, though? That’s a lot of weight on my shoulders.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hakoda grabs a cutting board from next to the sink and accepts the celery with a comedic grunt when Bato tosses them into his arms. “Sheesh, I can’t believe I was making you do all this vegetable chopping on your own.” He lays the cutting board carefully on a counter kitty-corner to the one Bato’s working at and dumps the celery on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It actually was faster without you,” Bato says. “It used to take the three of us almost an hour. Takes me like forty-five minutes. I missed your company, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Hakoda agrees, “Mom always says that cooking alone is one of the great curses of the nuclear family.” He leaves the celery stalk on the cutting board and nuzzles his face into Bato’s hair, his nose against Bato’s scalp. Bato keeps chopping carrots. “Your soup tastes just like Kya’s,” Hakoda says softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have the same secret ingredient,” Bato replies, and knows that Hakoda knows exactly what he’s talking about. He always does.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>- there we go!! two bakoda fics in as many days!! that's bc i finished writing this yesterday but don't like posting two fics at once so i waited. yeah<br/>- i am awfulll at writing angst so if this read bad that's why. sorry abt that. promise that the next installment in this series will be happy again. oh and!! yeah this is part of a series. it's standalone? technically?? but there r some references to the last fic. this series is a trilogy and the final fic in this series should be up.. well anytime between two days from now and a month from now but look out for that!<br/>- NON ROMANTIC 'I LOVE YOU''s r my favorite but i also love romantic i love you's so this has both!!<br/>- love is stored in the recipe box..<br/>- as always, you can find me on tumblr <a href="https://lazypigeon.tumblr.com/">@lazypigeon</a>. pls comment and kudos!! seeing responses to my work makes me SO happy &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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